


Secrecy

by sudden_lizard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Is it a Mary Sue?, Maybe it's a Mary Sue, Muggles, Muggles interacting with magic, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Statute of Secrecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:59:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1807945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudden_lizard/pseuds/sudden_lizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rowena Snape is a Muggle. Which is not a bad thing to be, lots of people are Muggle. Lots of Muggles are even allowed to know about the magical world, to hang around its margins, to live almost immersed. She gets this chance too, through her family relations, and takes it eagerly, because magic is amazing. Magic is friends and excitement and play. Magic is floating plates and talking chess pieces. Magic is solutions, and secrets, and knowledge. Magic is the best show she's ever seen.<br/>Magic, she needs to understand, is might.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrecy

In the jasmine garden of her early childhood, Rory was hiding in the bushes, like she had been every day of the summer. It wasn't the only thing that was the same as the day before, the days had all been very similar for a long while: The morning sun lighting up the mirrors in her mother's room, where Rory could read, but not for more than half an hour, and not too loud, and not while her mother was being fed. The nurses hurrying up and down the stairs, circulating trays and medicine and human waste; the servants airing sheets and making meals, all of them animated by an urgency Rory wanted to  _watch_ , all of them ushering Rory out of the way. Later, the nurses and the servants on the porch, talking lightheartedly, engulfed in cigarette smoke and coffee smell; still not allowing the girl around. The jasmine bushes, where she was allowed. Where there was nothing to watch, though, except the doctor passing by towards the house, evenly and punctual, always in her work clothes, always with her bag. Then the sun setting in front of her own room, as the jasmines started to open and the doctor left.

Then the night, like a switch, flicked to make the day start over. A day of which Rory was bored, so very bored.

So when it changed, when she saw not the doctor but the priest passing by towards the house, she leaped in excitement.

She knew what was going to happen: her mother would die, then there would be a funeral, then she would go live with her father and his other family. She had been told all this ages ago, and she has been looking forward to it. Not from the very beginning; in the beginning she had been scared, hoping that nothing would ever change, wishing that “a year, maybe a year and half” would stretch on and on.

But then the quiet days happened, and kept happening. Her mother wanted her around the house, but no one actually wanted her for conversations or tasks. Other kids weren't allowed at the house, to run around and complicate everyone's job.

***

Then her father had visited, bringing with him a tall blond man, that had spent most of the time in the library with the family lawyers. Rory and her father had stayed in the garden for hours, walking around and talking. She had showed him her mud castle and he had commented on the orientation of the front gate (“ _all wrong, you wouldn't want the guards to stare into the sun all morning. It should be on the south_ ”). They had even played in the bushes, like she did everyday, and Tobias had explained about light-sensitivity, photosynthesis, and why the jasmines open at night.

He had told her about how her life was going to be, about his house, much smaller than this, with no servants and barely any garden, overlooking a river. Her brother Severus, Rory had been delighted to find out, was not some whiny toddler, but seven years old, almost her age. They would share a room and play together. She was to go to the local school, and Sev was to follow, a year behind.

They had gone inside, later, where the blond man had told her that they needed to talk about something very important, if she was to live at Spinner's End. The men had had a grave look, and Rory had braced herself for more talk of illness and death.

“Do you believe in magic?” had been the first thing her father had said, after a pause.

She had nodded. This was not what she'd been expecting from a grave conversation.

“Good. Because you will see quite a bit of magic soon enough, and I -we- think you should be prepared. When you will live with us, I mean, you will see it. And, you know... ”

“I'm not afraid of magic”, because she couldn't let her father believe that she was anything other than brave, courageous, and excited for him to take her.

“Yes, of course, that's not the issue. The problem is, Rory, that magic is secret. So you will not be allowed to talk about it at school, or with friends. That's why I think you should know now, you should get used to it”

_Magic is exciting, but secrets are beyond exciting,_ Rory had thought.

“So, when will I see it? Is the magic at the house? Is the house a gate? To Narnia? To another magical world? With elves?” At least her father should know she was well-read.

“Not quite”, the blond man had stepped in. “I will explain it to you. I'm Daniel Abbott and I'm from the Ministry of Magic.”

_Ministry._ That was more like it, for a grave conversation.

The man had produced a wooden stick from a long and narrow pocket down the side of his leg. He had flicked it with a flourish, leaving behind a trail of red stars, then he had pointed it at a vase and mumbled “Wingardium Leviosa”. The vase had lifted and for a few seconds it had remained suspended two inches above the surface of the table. Then it had started floating around the room, guided the movement of the stick ( _wand,_ Rory had understood). The man had said a few more words, and the vase had changed color and shape, becoming a colored beach ball, which had circled the room a few more times, before being settled back on the table with a fluid wand movement and transformed back. 

Rory had watched with delight and had made up her mind that this was her favorite thing in the world and she would do nothing to ruin it. By the time the man had spoken again, Rory had already pledged to herself to do what was needed, to be quiet and lie.

“This is how it is: magic is real, and there are some people who possess it. They have their own newspaper, their own schools, and even a Ministry. But non-magical people don't usually know about these. Some do, some know. But they have to keep it secret. Like your father. And, now, you.”

“So you're not magical”

“No”, her father had nodded, “I'm not a wizard. But your-, I mean, Eileen, my wife, she is a witch. And”, he had hesitated for a moment, “your brother might be a wizard. We're not sure yet”

An evil step-mother witch, that still sounded like an adventure. Her brother could be one, too; did this mean he was evil too? Were all witches and wizards evil in this story? It wasn't necessary that they were all evil; Rory knew. It wasn't necessary that  _any_ of them were, but where's the fun if there isn't at least a bit of evil magic involved?

“Any questions, Rory? You can ask anything”

“Am I a...”

Her father had cut her short, looking really worried “It's unlikely. You're not a witch, we're almost sure of it”. He had paused, then, watching her like she's about to explode or burst into crying: “We really don't think you are.”

Mr. Abbott had nodded in agreement.

“It's because you're not one, and mom is not, and you need to, like, have it from your parents? Like black eyes?”

“Ummm, yes, something like that.”, Mr. Abbott had picked up the conversation. “Not necessarily parents, but there's usually a blood relation involved. And we went over your family history, there doesn't seem to be any magic connection there”. He had looked pained for a bit “I should add, in the spirit of fairness, that there are some people who get it just like that; are born with it, even if it's not in the family” Tobias had shot him a look. “But there's very few of them”.

But Rory had not been, and still wasn't, very interested in where magical people came from, or how they got to be. She wanted to know  _everything_ about their abilities, how they lived, how they kept it all a secret. By the end of the grave talk, half an hour later, she had heard about Muggles, the Statute of Secrecy, and how it was very important that she didn't say anything about any of this. 

****

So on the last of the quiet days, as she was heading to her room, Rory's head was filled with magic and secrets. There still was nothing for her to do, her mother wasn't able to talk and would never again be. 

Rory entered her room, and noticed that the impeccable mechanism of the household had already begun packing her things for after the funeral, undoubtedly at her mother's instructions. Rory was going through her handbag, idly, to make sure that Mr. Bigpaw wasn't being left behind, when her hand encountered rustling yellow paper. An envelope with photographs her mother had taken during the first months after her diagnostic.

Rory could almost hear it now: the quiet voice, in the library, going through the photos. “And one of Sylvia, fixing your hair. Two more of me, here in this room -that godawful dress-. Look, Rory! Your ribbons from last week. And another one, you're making a face; you really hate those ribbons, don't you. I should put them in some order...”

She had asked her mother about the photos, back when a year and a half had seemed like forever, and her mother had told her that time would pass so fast. “I don't want it to” Rory had cried, and her mother had explained and made it all seem ok. Time was a matter of memories, and they would gather a lot of those. They would spend the coming months going on trips, reading together, learning to dance, and doing _everything_ and taking pictures of it. It was going to be a year rich with stories and perfect moments, the weight of them distorting time, stretching it so it would seem a bigger thing than all the years of sorrow that were to follow. The memories were going to always be with Rory.

It hadn't worked out as planned. The disease had progressed faster than anyone had thought and the days had melted into boredom and silence, no dancing, no trips. Rory knew that there was no point in feeling sorry. She would hold on to the handful of moments she did have, all the tighter. 

She would live with her clever father and her magical step-mother and her  _brother_ , but she would always remember.

**Author's Note:**

> This may be remixed as a series, if I can't keep the narration linear. Ideally, I'll update weekly. Any feedback you can spare is appreciated.


End file.
